King and Lionheart
by tinyfierce
Summary: As requested, all of my Sebastian/Hawke tumblr drabbles together in one place! More will be added as they come. Examples of prompts include All That Remains, festivals, treating wounds, drunkenness, kids - basically, anything my tumblr followers can come up with. Will change the rating later on if needed.
1. The Five Kiss Meme

**anonymous asked:** for the five kiss meme, F!Hawke x Sebastian

* * *

 **One:**

" _Sebastian!"_  
 _  
The door to the Amell estate's garden swung open wide, sunlight bathing the springtime blooms and meticulously-kept ferns in a golden glow. He stepped over the threshold, warmth flooding him as he caught sight of Hawke wearing a radiant smile. The light caught the red of her hair, and there was a shine to her eyes as she turned to greet him._

"Took your time, didn't you?"

She reached out her hand, and he was at her side in the blink of an eye – fast, too fast. And then his arm was around her waist, and her fingers were tracing his jaw, ears. Her cheek was like yearling velvet, soft under his touch as he met the fullness of her lips. And everything in him thrummed at the chuckle he felt in her throat as he lifted her feet off the ground, steadying herself with her arms draped lazily around his neck. There was nothing to her, solid though she was – it was like holding a feather, if even that.

"This is the Fade," he murmured, pulling back to study her face. Every hair, every scratch was there in perfect detail, crafted from his own memory. "A dream."

"But a

good _dream," she whispered with a smile as she leaned in to kiss him again._

" _Aye. A good dream." Guilt pricked into his skin at every point she touched him. "But even in dreams, I can't..." He released her, and she tilted her head._

"But you wish you could?"

Sebastian woke with a start, the familiar ceiling of his quarters in the Chantry slowly coming into focus. It was still dark, well before dawn and even longer before his duties began.

With a sigh, he moved to sitting upright, pressing the heels of his palms gently into his eyes. It took a deep breath before he could pull back the sheets and stand, gingerly putting weight on his sleep-heavy legs as he made his way to the main hall.

As had become his ritual after these dreams, he lit a candle and knelt to pray. Each time, the same visions of affection, love. Each time, waking alone.

Andraste, give me strength.

 **Two:**

He didn't drink more than a glass of wine in an evening, but Sebastian enjoyed spending time at the Hanged Man all the same.

Wicked Grace nights were rare chances to relax and unwind, trading friendly barbs and reflecting on their most recent exploits following the walking hurricane that was Hawke. The lady in question was almost always present, whether or not she played. Tonight was an instance of the latter; her blades needed sharpening and she was constantly ducking in and out with supplies.

The archer looked at his hand, expertly hiding a smirk. The streak he'd been on had incited cries of foul play from both Isabela and Fenris, who then turned on Varric and accused him of dealing dirty. Not that Sebastian kept his winnings – he simply dropped them in the alms box when he returned to the Chantry for the night – but the experience was what he enjoyed most.

Hawke passed behind him, pausing to rest an arm on his shoulder and lean in to check the game's progress. "You winning, Vael?"

"For now." The fumes from the polishing rag she held stung at his nose, but he wouldn't have shooed her off for anything. "Though it seems Isabela's cards are quite good, from the way she's been tapping her foot."

"Blast it all!" The pirate swore as she petulantly threw her cards into the center. "Hawke, do something, he's robbing me blind!"

Hawke chuckled, pressing a kiss to his cheek before moving to her seat by the fire. "Good man."

He smiled, and something warm blossomed in his chest at the contact.

 **Three:**

He had long since banished any hopes, relegating affairs of the heart to a place in himself that was reserved for doubts and dreams and fantasies too dangerous to indulge. But his heart betrayed him even as it beat, trying desperately to send him a message with every _thump_ against his ribcage as he held Hawke in his arms.

There were days when the brightness left her, when her wit and daggers weren't enough to push through another morning with a broken heart. He knew that particular pain well, as his memory kindly reminded him on too many evenings. He relived every loss and every moment of weakness that had followed, the residual grief often enough to drain the color from his sight for days at a time after.

Hawke had lost both her remaining family and a strong, consuming love in a short span, only one of which would have been enough to cripple the average man. Yet she persevered, despite the constant whispers and lack of privacy that came with notoriety.

When he had been broken, frenzied with grief, Hawke had found him. She had been instrumental in his healing, extending her hand and offering friendship – along with a firm pull into the world he had long needed to be a part of. He was strengthened, and she could have asked anything of him and received it with no hesitation.

She had never asked him for comfort, not directly; he had offered, and she had silently accepted. When she needed peace, when she sought solace, it was the least he could do to return the immeasurable gift she had once given him. Both as a man of the faith - and as a friend.

He kissed her crown and threaded a hand through her hair, the intimate and affectionate nature of that friendship both a luxury and a torture.

 **Four:**

The stone of the hearth in Bann MacDougall's manor was warm under his palm as he threw out one hand to steady himself.

The other arm was tight around Hawke's waist, instinctively pulling her in close enough to rid their bodies of any space between them. He drank in the taste of her mouth, each of his senses clamoring for attention; the heaviness of her arms about his neck, the smell of the smoke on her hair, the sound of her leathers creaking and the warmth of her breath on his jaw.

He deepened the kiss, her eager response almost intoxicating in the way it drew him in. The need for air forced him to draw back briefly, inhaling so quickly his lungs burned, until the pressure of her teeth at his lower lip made even breathing seem inconsequential in comparison. He returned to her, intensity redoubled as he committed both arms to the task of demonstrating the strength of his conviction.

His world spun, the dull throbbing of his head wound a reminder of the danger they were facing. They were planning a coup, a move that, if executed poorly, could subject his people to a war for the crown. He had made himself a target – and for her part in this, the mark extended to Hawke.

She would face an assassin head-on with a smirk and her bare fists, but met his request for true honesty with skittish reservation and unease.

Yet his faith taught that the spark of hope shone brightest in darkness, and he took comfort in that thought as her fingertips grasped for his collar.

 **Five:**

"This is ridiculous. We're already married, so why do I have to do this?"

The prince smirked as he watched Hawke tug her sleeves into place for the hundredth time, a frown etched deep across her face. "It's tradition," he reminded her. "The Grand Cleric will give you her blessing and recite the oath. All you have to do is kneel, say 'I swear it,' wear the crown and greet the people."

She glared, tucking wayward curls back into the pins the maids had spent an hour that morning painstakingly placing in her hair. "You make it sound easy," she muttered. "You've already done it. I mean, there's so much to – What am I even supposed to do with my _face_?"

With a chuckle, he adjusted the mantle around her shoulders. "Look reverent, I suppose."

" _Thanks._ "

He knew all too well how irritated she could get when he let his amusement at her discomfort show. Still, it was hard to suppress a smile, and he lifted her chin to plant a warm kiss across her lips.

"Many already know what you did for them," he said gently, "and they love you for it. This is a chance to show the rest your commitment to this city and its people."

"By kneeling on an uncomfortable footstool and playing the world's fanciest game of ring toss. Of course."

The doors opened behind him and he held out his hand. She wrung her hands before taking it, rolling back her shoulders and straightening her spine.

"All right," she whispered, leaning in close to his ear. "I signed up for this."

"You did," he agreed, "and got me in the bargain."

She kicked him through her skirts, but couldn't keep the smile from her face.


	2. All That Remains

**anonymous as** **ked:** Are you still looking for Sebastian prompts? I've been thinking of some and there's a couple I really like. a) some kind of interaction between or reminiscence of a young Sebastian and your Warden (maybe a story being told to Hawke, I dunno - you're the writer ;)) and b) Sebastian comforting Hawke post-Arishok break-up (the permanent one) or post-AllThatRemains. Here's hoping one strikes your fancy! ::keeping fingers crossed::

* * *

I.

Sebastian was no stranger to loss.

He remembered the time after he had learned of his family's extermination, the details alternating between clear enough to be tangible and deliberately hazy. He could feel the crisp, rough surface of every piece of parchment, the chalky smell of ink and sealing wax, the give of the paper as he crushed it between fingers burning with anger and furious momentum. He couldn't act fast enough, couldn't write fast enough. The former prince had been a storm of righteous conviction, calling for vengeance and justice and blood at any price.

He had burst out his grief like an explosion; Hawke was the opposite. Her face was ashen, limbs heavy. Even her reactive temper was smothered, subdued into a half-numb husk. There was no breaking of furniture, no drunken brawling, no sharp tongue or violent outbursts. Only an eerie, unnatural calm that rendered her seemingly unable to complete even the most basic thoughts and actions.

Sebastian had volunteered to help with minor tasks around the estate, the things that slip by when you can only barely manage enough focus to see one thing at a time. He sorted letters, kept the pantry stocked, and encouraged Ogre to eat whenever possible. The mabari, true to form, never left his master's side, often only eating when she did (which was far less than it should have been, and only when excessively coaxed).

He would sometimes see Hawke wandering down the halls like a ghost, only to slow to a halt and slump against the nearest wall, as if the weight became temporarily tangible and too much to bear. Either he or the hound would gently guide her upright then, escorting her to the nearest piece of suitable furniture.

Leandra had painstakingly decorated her childhood home for a family that now numbered one person who wanted nothing to do with any of it.

II.

The archer sought, and received, dispensation from the Grand Cleric to conduct the ceremony to send off Leandra's remains. He had thought it best to make the mourning private, relying on his knowledge of Hawke to come to the conclusion that anything public would be trying at best and catastrophic at worst.

The butchered body of Hawke's mother had been reclaimed and accounted for, an excruciating process that had culminated in a blessedly quiet cremation. His objection to templars being present at the burning had been overruled; the unknown nature of the magic used was enough for even Elthina to concur, though she gave strict instructions that they were to keep silent and distant and only intervene if necessary.

It wasn't, and they were perfectly respectful, but Sebastian did his best to block them from Hawke's line of sight nevertheless.

Mairead had chosen to release her mother's ashes into the sea, citing that they had done the same for her father. All seas ran together, she reasoned, and the reunion would give both their souls solace.

They traveled to the Wounded Coast a few hours after Fenris, Aveline, Merrill, and Varric had volunteered to form an advance party to clear out the intended path. They were gone by the time Hawke and Sebastian arrived, and any resulting bodies, stray bolts, or other evidence of conflict had been judiciously cleared from view.

Hawke chose a peaceful spot of cliffside with a lone tree, overlooking a broad expanse of sea clear of wrecks. Sebastian kept the ceremony short, at Hawke's request, and as she tipped the silvery grains and powder over the rocks, the wind picked them up in weaving curls and brushed them across the waves, pulling them out into the horizon.

He gave her space, privacy. If she needed him, she would seek him out – but he stood back, out of view and out of mind as she stared out into the ebbing tide. He kept her in his sights for safety's sake, the curve of her back and strong posture and salt of the sea on her skin and eyelashes the very image of Hawke's internalized grief. All he could do was bear witness, looking at her with a kind of understanding that tightened his chest just _knowing_. Knowing that there was someone else in the world who knew that same ache all too well, as though that devastating amount of suffering couldn't possibly exist in a single world.

They passed by a blooming white lily on the way back. Hawke ripped it from the ground and hurled it off a cliff.

III.

The anguished look on Hawke's face was the first real emotion Sebastian had seen cross it for days.

She had to tell Bethany, she told him. Oh, Maker, she managed, how had she forgotten?

Images of empty wine bottles and arms smudged with watery, tear-tempered ink flashed through the archer's mind, and he reached out a gloved palm to rest on her shoulder. It wasn't her fault, he reassured her, though he was sure nothing could have convinced her to believe him. He wanted to tell her about everything awful and selfish and entirely not of his character that he had done in the days, weeks following his own violent loss. He had enough platitudes and anecdotes to satisfy anyone in Kirkwall, but he didn't have the words for this.

He did, however, know someone who did.

It only took a brief mention of Hawke's predicament for Varric to take it upon himself. Sebastian spoke of it in passing during the 'changing of the guard' at the estate, and the dwarf held up a hand to stop him. Choir Boy didn't need to say another word. He'd take care of Sunshine.

Connections and coin got the letter smuggled into the Gallows in less than a day.

IV.

He had done everything he could.

Sebastian had lit a sizable blaze in the fireplace and gathered the warmest, thickest blankets in the house to set in front of it. Hawke sat in the firelight, wrapped in a layer of heavily-embroidered roses and quietly sipping the spiced wine that Sebastian had asked Orana to heat in the kitchen. He shed his armor and took a knee beside her, reaching about her shoulders to drape a tasseled afghan around her weary frame.

She looked up at him then, a gray desperation seizing her features and twisting them into a terrified, pleading expression. Sebastian felt a shiver in her spine, and his heart lurched.

He had done everything he could to make her warm again.

After plucking the glass from her hands, he reached past her to set it on a nearby table, gathering her up in his arms as he returned. She melted into him, seeming to chase the heat of his skin and strength of his heartbeat. Her nimble fingers shook as she clutched at his undershirt, an urgency without focus radiating from her movements as she opened the blankets to envelop him as well. They were a tangle of limbs, the smell of wine on her breath and the desperation with which she clung to him stirring something in Sebastian's core. Any other man would have made love to her then, giving everything they could to ease the pain.

He wondered, not for the first time, if the Maker would forgive him for breaking his vows this once.

The moments ticked by, as slowly as they ever had in the last week. Her heartbeat slowed, the wine grew cold, and the fire began to dwindle. He stretched enough to add another few small logs to the hearth before returning to his charge, adjusting the blankets and shifting his hips to better accommodate her as sleep took claim. This was the limit of the comfort he could offer.

The next morning, Hawke ate breakfast unprompted. Orana nearly wept with relief, and Sebastian quietly folded the blankets, leaving them atop the Orlesian chaise in case they were needed again.


	3. A Festival Dance

**anonymous asked:** Sebastian and Hawke, dancing at a festival. =)

* * *

Hawke had left her daggers at home in the spirit of revelry, relying on the much smaller blades hidden away on her person in case of emergency.

It was Feastday, and Hightown was accordingly decorated like the entirety of the Free Marches had moved in and set up stalls, bringing every banner, every scrap of fabric they had. There wasn't a free stretch of wall to be seen in the entire district, and you could throw a stone and hit a vendor selling something delicious-looking. Music flooded every street and alley, and the sea of colorful finery was one of Hawke's favorite sights.

She'd wandered - more like skillfully maneuvered - through the crowd to the main square, where a band of musicians had been happily situated since early afternoon. It didn't take her more than a moment to pick Sebastian out of the crowd, not more than a few feet from her chosen spot reclining against a pole that was positively _festooned_ with thick ribbons.

The prince was surrounded by women, Hawke noted, and was graciously smiling and speaking to each - though she could tell even over the din that their 'questions about the Chant' were clumsy attempts at his attention and favor. It took a lot of willpower to focus instead on the dancers, fighting down her wildly entertained grin.

She must have done a piss-poor job of hiding it, as Sebastian had excused himself and managed to slip away to her side in a matter of moments.

"Enjoying yourself?"

He was smiling, and she didn't know whether he referred to the festivities or his situation.

"Yes, actually," she replied, one ankle over the other. "I love festivals."

Surprised, he arched one perfect eyebrow. "You, Hawke?"

" _Yes,_ me," she said. "Always have." She turned a bit to better face him, smiling up in fondness for the memory surfacing. "Once, when I was younger, Lothering had a delegation of templars passing through in time for Feastday. They took off their armor and completely joined in alongside the villagers, and it was the first time I got to see them less as metal-clad monsters who wanted to steal my family and more as… people, I suppose." Her smile remained, despite a sigh pressing out from between her teeth. "Beth was just at the age whee the handsome young ones were starting to catch her attention, and oh how she _cried_ when she had to sit out the dances because of her magic." She wiggled the fingers on the hand not tucked into her belt. "Couldn't risk touching them, and all."

Sympathy gentled Sebastian's face. "And you? You had no such restriction."

She held up a hand. "If Beth couldn't, then I wouldn't either. Turned them all down on principle."

He chuckled, approval clear in his voice. "A noble sacrifice."

"A damn waste!" Hawke smirked in response. "There were some really good-looking ones, and I loved to dance."

"And now?"

"Don't get the opportunity much."

Something lit up his face, and before she had time to recognize it as a warning, her hand was in his and he was pulling her into the dance.

"That side needs another couple," he pointed out brightly. "We'll join them."

Laughing too much to protest, Hawke felt daggers being glared into her back, but didn't mind them in the least. Sebastian was popular, but no one in their right minds would touch the most notorious woman in Kirkwall over a dance.

The music started up again, and they took their places opposite one another in the lineup. As the steps began, they reached out and caught one another's hands, bare fingertips running over leather. Their gloves, her strikers and his archer's, squeaked in protest under their tight grasp.

The dance called for them to switch partners, change and change again, and each time they reunited in the spinning, twirling chaos, they laughed and desperately sought each other's hands out.

"You're two steps behind," he scolded playfully on one round, earning him a half-kick to the shin.

"I'll get there," she insisted. "Don't rush me!"

He chuckled, pulling them both back and raising their arms to pass over the couple to their left. "Dance the next with me?"

"Absolutely, if you shape up."

"I'll try."


	4. Drunk in Hightown

**obsidianmichi asked:** One night in the Hanged Man, Hawke gets incredibly drunk. Sebastian is the only one left standing and she insists on him taking her home (who wants to sleep in Varric's bed?). There may be wandering hands and huggy drunkeness.

* * *

" _Sebastian_. Sebastian, I have something very serious to ask you."

"I can see that."

He cleared his throat and shifted his legs to better accommodate the woman currently straddling his thighs.

"No. Serious." Hawke captured his face in her hands, and he wasn't sure if it was to ensure that she had his complete attention or to stabilize her own balance. Her breath was heavily perfumed with wine; she'd received a case of a respectable vintage from a nobleman as thanks for a favor, and decided to share it - all of it at once - with all of the companions she could manage to drag into Varric's suite of rooms.

He tried to look meaningfully at their host to ask for his assistance, but Varric only smirked and mouthed "good luck, Choir Boy" before Hawke yanked his face back to attention.

"Varric's bed is too small," she insisted. "And he snores. And every time I sleep here I end up with my feet hanging off the end which is bullshit, Sebastian, _bullshit."_

"It sounds uncomfortable," he managed through fingers that were not his own covering his mouth. "But you said you had something to ask?"

"Yes. Yes, yes, _yes._ " She poked him in the chest.

"I need you to take me to bed."

They chantryman swallowed hard, adjusting his hips.

 _Hawke._

"You might want to reconsider your phrasing," he began, but she interrupted him with an almost-knee to the groin, which he narrowly avoided.

"You don't understand," she slurred. "I need to be half-decent tomorrow for mother's thing, and that means sleep and that means getting into my own bed and -" She leaned in, loudly whispering. "I think I might need help."

 _Oh,_ Maker, _Hawke._

It took all of his self-control not to shove her off in an act of self-preservation, and he instead settled for firmly grasping her shoulders and putting a bit of distance between them.

"Aye, that you might," he conceded with a nervous chuckle. "Let me excuse myself, and I'll gladly walk you back to the estate."

Grinning, she slunk onto the floor. "I'm being _responsible,_ " she declared proudly.

Then she reached for the nearest bottle.

* * *

It was a warm night - fortunately for Hawke, who apparently felt no need for boots as they trekked back through the streets to Hightown. She was mostly capable of walking, though the odd stumble or miscalculated step often was enough to completely shatter any remaining sense of balance.

After she nearly went careening into a collection of potted plants, Sebastian caught her about the waist, pulling her arm around his shoulder for support.

"Thanks."

He offered a smile, tentatively resuming their walk. "Here to help, aren't I?"

She snickered, rolling her head against his shoulder lazily. "Had a feeling you would be."

"If I may ask," he managed, sidestepping a wooden post. "Why me?"

"I trust you," she answered simply, without a moment's hesitation. "And the Chantry is a hop-skip from the estate."

Despite being unsure of exactly how long a 'hop-skip' was, Sebastian found himself with a tightness in his chest. "You trust me, Hawke?"

She stared up at him, frowning. "What?"

"No, I - " He cleared his throat. "You'd never said as much."

They had stopped moving, and Hawke extricated herself from his arms. " 's it make you _happy_?"

"

I - " He thought about how best to answer, but considering her sobriety level and the potential such a conversation would have toward the philosophical, he kept it simple.

"Yes."

He was met with the solid feeling of a chest nigh-crashing into his, and Hawke's arms slinging themselves around his neck.

"Then I'll say it as many times as you want," she murmured, syllables rolling and poorly formed, but still very much understandable. "I trust you."

She repeated it a few times, face pressed into the fur at his collar and voice muffled. But it warmed him each time, and he reached down to return the gesture tightly.

It had been long, far too long since he had heard those words both directed at him and meant in earnest. For small tasks, perhaps, but coming from someone as unforthcoming and well-defended as Hawke, it was recognition, it was sincere -

It was confirmation that the man he had become was worthy of trust.

He had so lost himself in thought that full minutes had passed and they remained as they were, embracing in the middle of Hightown, still a ways from their intended destination. As he moved to reclaim his arms, he was met with some resistance, and a smirk tugged at his mouth.

"Are you holding me to better convey your feelings," he asked, "or because you are currently unable to stand?"

Hawke hesitated.

"Why can't it be both?"

He laughed, patting her on the head and pulling back.

"Come," he said, "we can talk about this in the morning."

She grudgingly let him go, swaying into balance. "But we won't."

"No," he smiled, propping her back up and guiding her toward the stairs. "We won't."


	5. Healing Hands

**Anonymous asked:** Prompt: Seb gets hurt, and Hawke has to take care of him?

* * *

"Gently, now roll your shoulder forward a little."

With his help, Hawke tugged the final layers of his under-armor off, leaving him bare to the waist on her sofa. As she tossed the mail and fabric aside, she noticed that it was still smoking, the ice spell having hit the armor first and foremost. It had held up well, but the skin beneath -

"How does it look?" Sebastian asked, experimentally tightening his hand into a fist.

"Not bad," she answered honestly, "but not great, either."

She'd sent Orana to heat some spiced wine while she assessed the damage, and a pair of towels were hanging on the warming rack by the fire. Her elven maid was quickly learning what to prepare for which emergencies, a skill that Hawke appreciated in moments like these.

She ran her fingers over the skin extending from mid-shoulder to elbow. Puffy welts dotted the red expanse, and the veins at its edges resembled dark, creeping tendrils. As her fingertips hit upon a particularly raw patch, she felt him tense and heard him suck in a rough breath.

"Sorry," she apologized, reaching for the balm on the side table. "Looks like it'll take a while to go down."

Sebastian managed a weak smile, despite flinching as her oily hands revisited his vulnerable flesh. "I should be thanking you," he said, turning to watch her work. "I feel better already."

"Hold off on the thanks," she muttered, deathroot's telltale warmth heating her fingertips. "I might make it worse."

He chuckled. "I doubt it."

After she was satisfied that the affected area was thoroughly coated, Hawke crossed the distance to the fireplace and wiped her hands on one of the waiting towels. She grabbed its twin and returned to the couch, wrapping it around his arm snugly.

"If it's too warm, you'll just have to deal with it for a minute or two."

"It's fine, thank you." He let out a slow exhale, stretching the limb carefully before turning to his nursemaid in alarm. "Forgive me, Hawke, I hadn't thought to ask - are you all right?"

She waved him off, reclining into the upholstery. "I'm fine, just a few scratches."

To his credit, his face made it clear that he didn't believe her in the least. "I should still like to take a look."

"You just want to see me naked."

"Hawke."

"Don't you have a vow of chastity?"

" _Hawke._ "

Sighing, she surrendered her undershirt, thus revealing a matching set of ice welts spreading in a diagonal across her upper back. Without a word, Sebastian reached for the warmth balm and gently-yet-firmly pushed her to face the armrest. As his calloused fingertips took expert care around her injured skin, she couldn't help but sigh with relief.

"It may be difficult," he said quietly, reaching with his clean hand to pull stray hair from getting catching in the oily residue. "But it is not weakness to let people _help_ you."

She could hear the frustration in his voice, and she sighed in defeat. Sebastian's 'I'm not angry, I'm disappointed' tone was excruciatingly effective, and she knew she'd earned this one.

They were quiet for a moment before Hawke shifted, crossing one leg over the other as his hands moved to the next affected area.

"Hey," she called. "We're going to need another coat in a few hours." Reaching back, she tapped him affectionately on the leg. "Can you stick around?"

He stilled, but just before he took up again, she could feel a hand affectionately reach down to squeeze hers.

"Of course."


	6. Lazy Morning

**anonymous asked:** What about some fluffy Sebastian/Hawke lazy morning cuddles? :3c

* * *

"You're awake."

The sound of his familiar accent made the morning light that much more bearable, and Hawke slowly opened one eye. Sebastian sat in bed beside her, sitting up against the headboard with his legs still buried in the warm sheets.

"What time is it," she mumbled into the pillow.

"It's still early," he replied, lowering the book he'd been reading. "We're not expected downstairs for a few more hours. You may rest a while longer, if you like."

Rolling onto her back, she stretched loudly. "No, I'm up now." With a grunt of effort, she shuffled herself sideways enough to be pressed against him, wrapping an arm around his waist. She was rewarded with a smile and contented hum, as well a hand running through her hair.

"Big plans for today?"

"It appears so." He ran his thumb over her jaw and ear. "I have yet to choose advisors, and nominations have been coming in from every corner of Starkhaven. And you'll be equally busy - Aveline and Donnic arrive this afternoon."

Hawke smiled at the mention of her friend's name. "Don't worry, I know how to make a sales pitch. 'Kirkwall is crap, Starkhaven is beautiful, our guard has gotten soft and we're giving you free reign to whip them into shape.' She'll practically be salivating." Her forehead pressed into his thigh. "And Donnic's going to be thinking about kids, so I know he'll help me out with her."

Sebastian chuckled, shifting to be more accessible for Hawke's lazy affection. "I hope you succeed. But you should still take some time this morning to prepare."

"Well, if we have a few hours," Hawke began, slowly sliding one arm under the coverlet. "I can think of something else we can do."

Her hand found the waistband of his pants, and she could feel his breath hitch as her fingers traced along the edge.

"We have much to do today," he warned, but made no protest as Hawke snuck one exploring hand beneath the fabric and busied her fingers in the soft curls that trailed downward.

Then she bit the skin of his thigh, firm but teasing, and she heard the back of his head hit the headboard. She'd won.

The book was tossed aside and he reached for her, agreeing that work could be put off a bit longer.


	7. The Little Princess

**anonymous asked:** Fanbabies! Sebastian and Hawke's first child. :3

* * *

She had a feeling that when she came back into the room, he'd be there.

Sure enough, when Hawke opened the doors, Sebastian stood by the bassinet, lit by the warm midmorning sun streaming in through the windows behind him. He turned to greet her with a smile, the simple golden band of the royal circlet glinting with the incline of his head.

"She's awake," he murmured quietly as his wife crossed the room to join them.

"And that means she'll be hungry soon," Hawke added, looking around for the nurse. "Where's Enid?"

"I asked her to leave us for a moment." He ran a hand gently over his daughter's wispy auburn curls, beaming widely as a tiny hand came up to grasp at his sleeve. "She looks more like you every day."

"And shares _your_ fascination with my breasts, let me tell you." She leaned in to pick up the infant, eliciting a happy-sounding burble. "Come on, Robin, your father is using you as an excuse to avoid work."

She led Sebastian over to the cushioned chaise beneath the neighboring window, transferring the tiny princess to lay supported against her father's chest. He leaned back into the plush fabric, adjusting to better free his upper hand. He was learning quickly, Hawke noted - likely a result of constantly ducking into the royal quarters to catch a moment of relief from his duties and marvel at the wonder that was the tiny human.

"You can't keep running over here every chance you get," Hawke reminded him. "The Feastday festival is coming up in a matter of weeks, and you still have a lot of planning to do."

"So my advisors remind me," he chuckled. "Bann MacDougall is particularly insistent about finalizing decisions on which ale we'll be serving at the banquet."

"Of course he would be."

Hawke reclined on her side, pulling her knees to curl beneath her as she watched the two of them.

"Maybe I should move her to the audience chamber," she joked. "Then you might actually get some work done."

"The people _have_ been anxiously awaiting a formal introduction," he half-agreed as he pressed a kiss to his daughter's head.

"Then we can take her out for a bit on Feastday," Hawke conceded. "But if the loud music and bright colors send her into a fit, she's your daughter, not mine."

He laughed, the vibration stirring the formerly-dozing child in his arms.

"Understood," he acknowledged, patting Robin on the back lightly to coax her into sleep again. "Just… a few more minutes, I swear it."

Hawke smirked, pinching his nose. "You're prince. Do your job."

He fought a smile.

"Yes, _mo ghraidh."_


	8. Andraste's Flaming Knickers

**sue-donym-98 asked:** Sebastian/F!Hawke, having a passionate argument about something silly/stupid

* * *

"I'm just calling 'em like I see 'em!"

Hawke stood on the mossy cobblestones, gesturing to the statue of the Maker's bride that oversaw the village square.

"And don't say the elements have rounded 'em down, because every line on her face is still totally intact."

Sebastian crossed his arms. "The very fact that we are _having_ this discussion is near blasphemy. And in public, no less!"

"No one knows us here," she countered. "In fact, look."

To the archer's horror, she began climbing the statue, hooking her feet into the carved flames at the base and grabbing onto one stone breast to haul herself up.

"Maker's _sake,_ Hawke," Sebastian pled, "come down this instant."

"Not until I prove my point." To demonstrate, she pulled off her striking gloves and, as clinically and respectfully as possible, ran her bare hands over the perfectly rendered hips and backside.

Sebastian murmured the Chant under his breath all the while and wished the ground would swallow him whole as he helplessly witnessed what could only be described as sexual harassment of a religious icon.

"Like I thought, nothing. Not a single line or wrinkle or seam, on this or any other statues I've ever seen." She patted the ample rear affectionately. "It's confirmed - Andraste went without."

"Andraste most often wore armor, by all accounts," Sebastian pointed out. "She would have had a full set of undergarments and padding."

"But this is a _gown_. A nice one." Hawke leaned against the statue, crossing her ankles. "You don't wear smalls under those."

"It's true," Isabella added, wagging a finger. "I should know."

"Because you _never_ wear any?"

At Hawke's smirk, the pirate glared.

"You want my help or not?" She turned back to Sebastian. "Because I love _silk_ and the finer things," she clarified. "And it's totally true."

Sebastian turned to Aveline, his last hope. Much to his disappointment, she shook her head.

"Hate to say it," she admitted, "but my mother told me the same. Not that I had much occasion to use her advice, but- "

"Your wedding?" Hawke prompted.

"Went without."

With a triumphant grin, the Champion leapt back to the ground and playfully nudged her shoulder against Sebastian, who sighed heavily.

"Didn't put _that_ in the chant," she snickered, "did they?"

"The next time you ask me to hide you in the Chantry," he informed her, "you will have penance to do first. "

"Worth it."


	9. Holidays Together

**anonymous said:** Sebastian and Hawke for 13?

"13. Holidays together"

* * *

"It seems that Zevran will not be in attendance at tomorrow's Satinalia ceremony."

Hawke smirked at Sebastian from her place admiring the stupidly massive tree in the Great Hall. "Ambassador Arainai has chosen to spend the holiday in Antiva, where he describes the season as 'decadent.' And given the choice between a week-long party and an event at the Chantry..."

The prince chuckled. "As I recall, he said that 'Starkhaven is a lovely place-' "

" 'if a little burdened by piety.' Exactly." She stretched, smiling apologetically. "Can't say I blame him, though I don't get a say in the matter."

She had been informed of the Satinalia proceedings a month before so as to better prepare for them. It was Starkhaven tradition that on the eve of the holiday itself, the citizens would lay 'gifts' – offerings of food, drink, clothes, and other necessities – at the feet of Andraste. At the end of the festivities, the gifts would be redistributed among those in need, and the revelry more typical of Thedas would take place the next day.

The bulk of the offerings – and the refreshments and entertainment – were made up by the crown, of course. However, this only meant that the ceremonial gift-giving had evolved into a competition for the nobility, who often arrived with increasingly extravagant and _thoroughly_ useless offerings to one-up their rivals.

"I've already had to convince several nobles that refugees and the sick have no need for artisinal Orlesian ham or black fennec stoles," Sebastian lamented. He joined her by the tree, running a hand through his hair, over the royal circlet as he watched the servants decorate the upper branches.

Hawke crossed her arms with a knowing grin. "Let me guess – they just _happened_ to have them around the estate, and wouldn't miss them in the least?"

"Or so they insist."

They stood in comfortable quiet, admiring the strands of beads and garlands as they were draped meticulously between and around the thick boughs. There were some precarious moments with the ladders, though always more amusing than dangerous.

Suddenly, a thought struck Hawke, and she turned to face the prince properly. "Do you remember the first Satinalia gift I ever gave you?"

"A pair of strikers," he replied without hesitation. "Doeskin, stamped with Olaf's signature by the base of the thumbs."

"I knew you couldn't have personal things," Hawke explained, "so I thought I'd get you something useful."

"They were a vast improvement over my former pair." A fond smile wound its way over his lips, and the brightness of his blue eyes softened. "I hardly ever took them off."

"Until I got you new ones."

"Aye, even then."

She frowned, uncrossing her arms. "Wait, you would wear the _old_ ones?" Cocking her head, she studied his face. "I must've bought you a half dozen pairs over the years. What happened to them?"

"I would wear them when accompanying you in combat," he said slowly, "and switch when we returned to safety."

After a moment of racking her memories to confirm, Hawke's brow furrowed. "You _did,_ come to think of it. Andraste's _tits_ – "

" _Hawke_ ," he gently reminded at the expletive, and she she shook her head.

"Sorry. Just - why?"

"Why, indeed."

Sebastian shifted his weight, pointedly quiet, and when Hawke arrived at it, she straightened.

"Wait, do you mean to tell me that you had feelings for me _even then_?"

He chuckled, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "Varric thought it painfully obvious."

" _Varric_ knew?" Hawke pressed a hand to her forehead in disbelief. "Maker, the years of -"

"In my own defense, I had quite convinced myself early on to give up on my affections entirely." He turned to her, amusement plain on his face. "However, just as I thought myself resigned..."

"...I proposed," Hawke finished, and Sebastian smiled warmly.

"Aye, that you did."

She snickered, taking a good, long look at him. She'd have to have a word with Varric later, but for now, she pulled him down for a kiss.

"I never make anything easy for you, do I?"

Sebastian smiled as their mouths met, an affectionate murmur in his throat.

"But _really_ ," Hawke said, pulling back, "four, no _five_ years where you didn't - "

He kissed her again, silencing that train of thought. Hawke grinned, winding her arms around his neck and stretching up on her toes.

She'd give him a pass – for now. But _Maker_ , would he have some questions to answer once Satinalia was over.


	10. Tender

**Anonymous asked:** F!Hawke/Seb, 24

24\. tender

* * *

Sunlight warmed the sitting room, gentling the cool autumn air and attracting both of the royal suite's occupants to the long sofa opposite the fireplace.

Sebastian glanced up from his book, studying Hawke discreetly over the thick pages. She, too, had settled in for some afternoon reading in the unexpected free time they'd been granted. Embroidered rust-red finery hugged her figure beautifully, skirts crumpled into an undignified mess as she tucked her legs up underneath her backside to get more comfortable. Here, she was safely away from prying eyes who would judge the newly-crowned princess for such posture. It was a comfort, both to see her acting so much herself and the rare moment alone during the day.

Part of him longed to take advantage of such an opportunity, to break the silence and close the short distance between them, yet he reined it in. He had been doing his utmost to give her space - to allow her to branch out on her own in his homeland, to explore and grow into her role as a ruler and all that it would entail. She could not do so freely with him constantly hovering nearby, especially if he was unable to keep himself from intervening or making suggestions.

It was proving very difficult to keep a healthy distance when he wanted nothing more than to be by her side.

And all of this was _in addition_ to the fact that they were still navigating what it meant to be a couple only after marrying, something quite different when they were no longer throwing an active coup with nary a moment to breathe.

He absently overheard the shuffle of fabric as his eyes scanned the pages, seeing but not reading the words as his thoughts traveled.

"Sebastian?"

He lifted his head and turned. Hawke had abandoned her book to the floor and was now patting her lap invitingly, grey-blue eyes fixed on him. "Come here."

He hesitated, but only for a moment. This was the first time she had ever offered this particular intimacy, and he was starved of her enough that he didn't have it in him to resist. He lay on his back and settled his head atop her thighs, one leg bent at the knee and the other swung over the edge to accommodate his height. As he folded his hands over his stomach, there was nothing in Thedas that could have kept the smile from his face.

She tugged the royal circlet free, and he heard the _clack_ of it against wood as she placed it elsewhere. Though as soon as her fingers began weaving patterns through his hair, she could have thrown it across the room and he wouldn't have protested.

"I feel like I haven't seen much of you lately," she said, running long, even strokes around his temples. "It's odd and I don't like it."

He chuckled, closing his eyes. "Aye, but you've done well without me all the same."

"I have, haven't I?" He could hear the smile in her voice, and he hummed appreciatively when she moved her attentions to his ears. "Still, I'm glad for moments like these."

He felt a knot that had wound itself around his heart relax at her words. He had given her space, distance, _freedom_ – and she had come back to him.

"As am I, _mo ghràidh_."


End file.
